Once we’ve relocated the Edward Cornwallis statue to a museum, Halifax’s founder can finally speak freely. We’ll learn a lot from what he has to say.

Cornwallis spent the first half of his career leading armed groups of men to commit state terrorism in the form of mass murders, rape and expulsion. For that, his king rewarded him with praise, money, and important jobs.

Cornwallis spent the second half of his career preventing disastrous military misadventures and preserving the lives of his soldiers. For that, his king arrested him, embroiled him in court martials, killed his commander and eventually exiled him.

Staunch defenders of the statue regularly say Cornwallis’s actions in Nova Scotia happened in a “much harsher time.” But they stop there. The statue forces them to — there’s hardly any room at all on that plaque.

In our museum, we can go further and figure out why Cornwallis’s world was so much harsher.

In researching Cornwallis: The Violent Birth of Halifax, I read every letter Cornwallis wrote from Halifax to his bosses in London, and every letter they wrote to him. I read three years’ worth of council-meeting minutes and each proclamation council issued, from dealing with illegal rum to burying dead strangers.

His statue makes no mention of his scalping proclamation, yet it was the cornerstone of his plans for Nova Scotia. From 1749 to 1752, he spoke openly (even proudly) of his plans to kill and harass Mi’kmaq humans until they left Nova Scotia. He wrote to his bosses explaining what he intended to do, informed council and posted the proclamation around Halifax. He spent public funds to buy the scalps when his actions were carried out.

For this, he earned the full support of the king, his bosses in London and Halifax council. His aggressive actions in the 1746 Pacification of Scotland, and his preparation for the 1755 Expulsion of the Acadians, likewise earned him praise and promotions.

But when, in 1756, he was told to attack French troops at Minorca to win the island back to British control, he looked at the situation first hand and concluded an attack “would have looked more like a bravado than any real intention to the service.”

So he supported a tactical retreat to avoid pointlessly killing many of his soldiers (not to mention the French soldiers). For that, he was arrested and charged with failing to carry out orders. He was court martialed, but not convicted. His commander, Admiral John Byng, was convicted and shot dead on the deck of his ship in front of his crew (and possibly Cornwallis).

The next year, Cornwallis’s undemocratic government again ordered him to attack a French target (Rochefort). Again, he assessed it first hand and said that in his expert opinion, attacking it “would be dangerous, almost impracticable and madness in a manner to attempt it.”

He supported a retreat so as to not see his soldiers die in a foolhardy mission.

His commander was again court martialed for failing to attack, and Cornwallis was forced to testify as a witness. He escaped without official punishment, but his king removed him from all royal posts and sent him into exile as governor of Gibraltar.

So our imaginary museum exhibit built around the statue of Edward Cornwallis can tell this story of his two lives. From that, we can learn why Cornwallis’s Britain was so harsh: the king rewarded people who acted with ruthless violence and sidelined those who did not.

And we learn that is the problem with anti-democratic governments like Britain’s in the 1700s. It was designed to serve the interests of the elite and took no account of the majority of people. Then, we can understand why Responsible Government and extending the vote were such important advances in our civilization.

Next week, we’ll complete our plans for 2016 by seeing how embracing our land’s Mi’kmaq identity will make it a cooler, more interesting and happier place to live.

Jon Tattrie is the author of Cornwallis: The Violent Birth of Halifax. Talk to him on Twitter @jontattrie or jon@jontattrie.ca.